


The Breaking Circle

by delazeur



Series: That Other Spirit Healer [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anders Needs a Hug, Anders joins the Warden instead, Angst, Psychological Trauma, Solitary Confinement, Wynne Died at Ostagar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1689497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delazeur/pseuds/delazeur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Anders is released from solitary confinement after a year in the wake of events at Ostagar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Breaking Circle

**Author's Note:**

> In this AU Wynne doesn't survive Ostagar, and Anders is recruited by the Warden in her place.

It was too loud. 

Too loud and too bright and too much. 

Even with the hush that seemed to have come over the halls of the Tower, at least he thought it was a hush, because honestly how well could he remember what it had really been like before? His hands shook.

Before. 

There was a line drawn in the middle of him, an Anders before and an Anders after. 

An Anders before Karl had been sent to Kirkwall. 

An Anders before he had been caught two weeks into his sixth escape. 

An Anders before 384 days in the dark and the damp and the silence. The rock under the lake seeped water. It was always dank. Always cold. Always dark. Dripping in the distance. The rattle of armor and the heavy footfalls of a guard who never spoke. The constant high-pitched whine in his ears that he was never sure was real or imagined. These were all part of the silence. 

The hand on his shoulder was there to steer, to restrain, maybe to hold him up? It was armored, clenched too tightly, and the Templar it belonged to could scarcely be thought of as a person. Bucket-headed. Hard shelled. Like a crustacean. Anders had heard of crabs in the oceans, and langoustines on tables in Orlais, but for himself he’d only ever seen the little crayfish in the bottom of Fereldan streams. 

On his third escape there’d been a girl. A girl with dark hair and blue eyes who taught him to catch them, splashing with her knobbed knees and sharp elbows, pretty and young, and he’d been horrified when they’d boiled them alive but listening to her sister and brother crack them open and gobble them down he’d caved and the meat was pink and sweet, though barely even a bite in each plated tail… He didn’t remember the girl’s name anymore, but he remembered the hard shells of the crayfish, the way they lifted their claws in impotent challenge, and the sun and the water. 

The templar’s armor clanked and the giggle that escaped was hoarse and strangled and far too loud because he was thinking about beady eyed crayfish wearing helmets and skirts. 

The hand pinched harder and he thought for a moment the laughing would become a scream. Something Anders-before never would have done. But Anders-during? Anders-in-the-dark? He would. Anders after? He had no idea who that was. 

The lamps and the enchanted sconces were too bright, and his eyes were slitted against the glare, but he was grateful. He knew there were people whispering in doorways and on crossing corridors, and it was better if he couldn’t see their faces. He was afraid of who he would see wearing mirror-eyes that reflected him with pity or revulsion or disdain, and also who he wouldn’t see. 

Walking with his eyes half-closed also meant he didn’t mark the path, didn’t realize he was being pushed through the First Enchanter’s doorway until he heard his dust-dry voice say his name, but for a moment he didn’t know that meant him. The second time it was louder, and Anders lifted his chin to peer through the loose strands of his hair at the gray-bearded man standing before the desk. 

The tip of his tongue ghosted over lips cracked and ragged with chewing, tasting of salt and mildew. He felt his eyebrows lift and dip, and he couldn’t remember what came next. The name that was said, that was him, but what did it mean? 

“Maker’s breath, I don’t have time to stand around here all afternoon!” That voice was the other man, another hard-shelled crayfish in a skirt. “Mage Anders, you’re being elevated to Enchanter. The apprentices training in healing are now yours.” 

“Knight-Commander, give him a moment.” The First Enchanter’s hand on Anders’ elbow was gentler, not so pinching, but the kindness in it was a lie. “Anders, what the Knight-Commander has said is true, but it is not a reward.” 

How could it be a reward? He’d done nothing but sit in the dark and talk to the dark and a cat and himself for so long he’d forgotten how to speak to actual people. He wet his lips again, or tried, but mostly his dry tongue dragged at the ragged, peeling skin. 

“This is a terrible idea, Irving. You should tell Uldred he’s plainly not of sound mind and to find another candidate to take Wynne’s position. He can go back to the dungeons until the Blight, or whatever in blazes is going on, is over and we have time to deal with him.” The steel voice that scraped along Anders’ ears and down his spine caused him to shudder. 

“Wynne?” That rough, rusty voice was his, wasn’t it? And that name was one he knew. 

A soft tutting, a gentle squeeze. Irving was still lying. “Senior Enchanter Wynne died at Ostagar along with too many of our fellows. We had sent many of our healers to help the King’s Army and the Grey Wardens, but few of them will return, Anders. As Senior Enchanter Uldred pointed out, you are the only fully trained spirit-healer currently in Kinloch Hold, and despite your history of unreliable behavior and questionable judgement--” The First Enchanter paused as the Knight-Commander snorted. “Yes, well, when the survivors arrive we will need your skills.” 

There was another pause, silent, and Anders felt another creeping, screaming giggle curdle in his throat. He didn’t let it slip out past his clumsy, dead tongue, biting the scab on his lower lip to keep it in. The level gazes and the lying hand on his elbow stayed and he slowly pulled his chin in toward his chest. “Wynne is dead?” 

“Yes. Now, will you accept the responsibility that your station and age dictates or would you like one of Gregoir’s nice young men to walk you back downstairs?” The light notes, lilting, tucked into his cheeks as if he were savoring them, like the spare pieces of candied fruit rind that Anders was sent once, held against his gums until there was no flavor left, made Anders suspicious of Irving’s voice. But he nodded quickly, jerking. He did not want to go back downstairs. 

It was too bright and too noisy up here, but down there… Down there was the Anders that was straddling the line. The Anders that was the line between before and after… that was no Anders at all. It was a ghost, a shadow, who spoke to the dust and the mold and the cracks in the stones. Who clung to the begrudging purr of a one-eyed, ratty-eared cat as if it were his mother’s love. 

“My… my things?” The way his throat constricted drove his voice high and sharp. It hurt to know the thing he wanted to ask for and cannot. 

“They have been moved to your new quarters.” Irving’s mouth was tugged up and out at the corners, but it was a lie, this smile. Gregoir’s glower seemed truthful by comparison. 

“Th-thanks.” Anders ducked his head again, letting the gauntleted hand lead him out and down to the room he was assigned with it’s single bed, and the shelves empty of herbs or books, and the lonely pillow that was once red and was now a dark rose embroidered in faded goldenrod. 

It was too close and too small in this room with the door shut. Outside in the hallways he could catch a ray of sunlight through a window-slit at the ceiling. The hushed whispers of the mages spoke of Ostagar. And the apprentices? When he finally heard what they whispered they spoke of Jowan accused of blood magic, and Ellamina Amell suspected as well… and carried off to Aeonar or Kirkwall or maybe she had died at Ostagar too. 

The cells beneath the lake seemed almost better by comparison. Perhaps he could find one they’d let him flood and he could drown and float away. He shook his head as he curled up on the bed. 

It may have been too loud, too lonesome, too bright, and far, far too much… but Anders knew it wasn’t forever. He would find the moment, and this time when he ran, he would run with feet on fire, and he’d damn well burn before he ever came back.


End file.
